


Gottlieb Family Dinner

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Family Dinners, M/M, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013), Second-Hand Embarrassment, Sibling Rivalry, refs to hermann's Teenage Rebellion, refs to newt's band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29941491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: After the world doesn't end, Hermann takes Newt home to meet his family. Absolutely no one enjoys themselves.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 9
Kudos: 43





	Gottlieb Family Dinner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ksci_janitor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ksci_janitor/gifts).



> so i've never really tried my hand at extensively writing the gottlieb siblings before, and I thought it would be fun to give it a shot and use the funniest headcanon, imo, where they all absolutely Hate each other. 100% inspired by [this marvelous art by ksci](https://k-sci-janitor.tumblr.com/post/644935768567152640/thought-id-take-a-crack-at-the-gottlieb-siblings) and our LENGTHY convos over discord about how terribly this whole scenario would play out
> 
> ages of gottlieb siblings actually based on me and my own siblings! though fortunately I get along a bit better with mine than hermann does, LOL

“I don’t see why _I_ have to go,” Newt says. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t met your family before.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call shouting at my father for being a—what was it—” Hermann straightens the knot of his tie. It’s the first time Newt’s ever seen him in a tie—it’s _very_ weird. “—a _fascist_ , in front of all his colleagues, meeting my family. Father won’t even be there.”

Newt perks up. “He won’t?” he says.

Their eyes meet in the mirror, and a wry smile flickers over Hermann’s face. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he says. “We’ll be having the distinct, _ah_ , pleasure of dining with my charming siblings tonight.”

While Newt had, in fact, met the infamous Dr. and Mrs. Gottlieb at a banquet some years back, and he had said a few choice words about their treatment of both the jaeger program _and_ their middle son (most likely due to the severe amount of free champagne Newt’d been steadily consuming all night long leading up to that point), Hermann’s siblings remain a vague dark-haired and cheekboned mystery to him. The only one he has some understanding of is the oldest one, Dietrich, who looks like Hermann if Hermann bought a comb and pants that fit him. Newt remembers catching him giving an interview on TV once about some space program he was funneling money to a few years back and wondering why the hell he wasn’t sending some of that over to his brother instead. The program’s probably taken off now that the world isn’t actively ending—he must be _so_ happy. “Oh, boy,” Newt says.

He tugs at his own tie. After nixing every single skinny tie in Newt’s wardrobe, Hermann—with a great, heaving sigh—had removed a pristine navy blue bowtie from his suitcase and passed it over to Newt. “You need to look _somewhat_ presentable,” he’d said. “You don’t understand my family—they’ll find any flaw to pounce upon.”

“Should I try to do something about my hair?” Newt says now. Hermann always seems to be fussing over Newt’s hair when they go out to do something fancy. Hilarious, considering the circumstances. Pot, kettle cliché and all. Anyway, his freshly-shaved cheeks don’t quite match up with the look his hair is cultivating at the moment—a bit long, with some _devil-may-care_ vibes. Newt can’t remember the last time he had a haircut outside of his bathroom. When he and Hermann had to give that magazine interview a few months back, maybe. “I have some product. Or I could take another shower, and like, blow-dry it, or…”

Hermann hums in thought, reaches out to tug at a strand of Newt’s hair, and shakes his head darkly. “I don’t imagine anything could help it.” He tsks. “Perhaps we could make a quick stop at the barber’s…”

Newt laughs, but shuts his mouth when he realizes Hermann isn’t kidding. “I’ll, uh, get the product,” he says.

* * *

“Dietrich is the eldest,” Hermann tells Newt in the taxicab over to his brother’s apartment. “Seven years my senior.”

“He’s the space guy, right?” Newt says. His hair feels weird, and almost a little crispy; the amount of hair product he had to put in it to make it lie as flat as it is was honestly kinda nasty. He’s going to need a long shower tonight.

Hermann does a bad job of hiding his disdain. “ _Space guy_ ,” he echoes snidely. Newt winces, flushing in embarrassment. He loves Hermann, but when Hermann gets stressed, he gets mean. “Yes, Dietrich is an aerospace engineer. He is most certainly going to talk about it, and the space probe he’s just designed, quite endlessly. If he asks you if you’ve heard about it, say yes. It’ll be better for all of us.”

“Aerospace,” Newt says. “Got it.”

“Karla is four years my senior,” Hermann says. “She is the head of a well-respected cardiology program at a nearby medical school. She was always father’s favorite, so you mustn’t say anything rude about him in front of her, or she’ll be cross. Her partner, Jonas, is a psychologist—a fair warning, they _will_ try to diagnosis you with at least three different personality disorders before dessert.”

“Oh, boy,” Newt says.

“Last, of course, is Bastien,” Hermann says. “He is the youngest by three years—Mother and Father simply _doted_ on him. Unlike the rest of us, he has rejected the sciences entirely in favor of managing a rather successful record label in Berlin.” He sounds especially bitter about Bastien for some reason; Newt can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with Hermann clearly ranking lower in favoritism among the Gottlieb siblings than the guy who straight-up ran from the traditional STEM family values. “Only I assume it’s successful—it’s not the music I’d typically go for. _Er_. Alternative. Independent. You know the sort I mean.”

Newt perks up at this. Alternative music is kind of his thing, and if he ever has the time to revive the old band, having an in with a producer in _any_ form, let alone a producer who happens to be the brother of his sorta-partner… “No shit,” he says. “Really? What’s it called?”

“B.G. Records,” Hermann says, with an eyeroll. “ _Terribly_ creative, I know.”

“Your brother owns—?!” Newt gapes at Hermann. “ _Dude_. That’s what that stands for? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! You know B.G. signed my old bassist a couple years back, his new band, I mean? They’re _craaaazy_ successful now.” Newt's only a little bitter about it.

“ _Your_ old bassist?” Hermann says. “Mm, my brother possesses a wealth of creativity _and_ taste, it appears.” Their cab suddenly pulls to a halt; Hermann looks out of the window, and his face falls. “Oh, damn it all, we’re here. Remember what I’ve told you, Newton—please, please behave yourself.”

Newt, already lost in daydreams of cornering Bastien Gottlieb with some old Black Velvet Rabbits YouTube videos (hey, if you though the _bassist_ was good, what about the _lead guitarist and singer_?), nods slowly. “Sure thing, dude. No problem.”

Hermann smooths down Newt’s hair twice on the elevator ride up, and once they make it to Dietrich’s tidy little welcome mat—after grumbling something under his breath—licks his thumb and rubs vigorously at Newt’s cheek. “ _Toothpaste_ ,” Hermann snarls. “Didn’t you look in the mirror before we left? A fine sight that would’ve been.” Then he licks his thumb again and begins to attack Newt’s other cheek. “Oh, and here too…”

“Hermann,” Newt says.

“And your collar is—”

“ _Hermann_ ,” Newt says.

Hermann drops his hand from Newt’s tie, and—smiling—Newt catches it and laces it with the fingers of his own. “It’s going to be okay,” he says. He gives Hermann’s hand a little squeeze. “It’s just dinner. I don’t need them to like me, because _you_ like me plenty enough already, right?”

When Hermann still looks unconvinced, Newt decides there’s only one course of action to take, a surefire way to cheer Hermann up: he leans in and pecks a little kiss at Hermann’s mouth.

The door swings open before he’s finished. “ _Really_ , Hermann,” someone says, and Newt and Hermann spring apart (Hermann paling in mild horror), “there’s a time and a place.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Hermann stammers. “Dietrich. I’m—I’m terribly sorry.”

Dietrich Gottlieb looks more or less the same as he had all those years ago talking about rocketships on the laboratory television, if not a bit greyer at the temples. He’s wearing a starched white dress shirt, an uninteresting tie, and a neatly-pressed pair of grey slacks. Shiny gold cufflinks glitter at his wrists. Newt is somewhat unnerved to see that he and Hermann have the exact same haircut, and briefly imagines the severe Mrs. Gottlieb sitting each of her children down with a bowl and a pair of blunt scissors so frequently in their youth that eventually it just stuck. “I can’t say I don’t expect it from you at this point,” Dietrich sniffs, and a violent red blush blooms from Hermann’s ears to his cheeks. “Do come inside once you’ve finished.”

Hermann seems to shrink to half his size under his brother’s glare—like they’re kids all over again, and Dietrich’s just snapped at Hermann for snooping through his bedroom, or breaking his toy, or borrowing his bicycle without permission. It’s a bizarre and foreign look on Hermann. Newt feels an unfamiliar pang of pity for him. “D—Dietrich,” Hermann says, “this is Dr. Newton Geiszler, my—er—colleague, I suppose. He was very grateful to receive your invitation.”

“Mm,” Dietrich says. The unimpressed once-over he gives Newt makes Newt want to blush, too. Instead, he sticks out his hand.

“Call me Newt,” he says. Then, in a valiant (and very, very rusty) attempt at their mother tongue, “Hermann’s told me a lot about you.”

Dietrich doesn’t accept the handshake. Nor the German, apparently. “There's no need for that,” he says in English. “Hermann has told me your German is dreadful, so I've already warned everyone. You’re last to arrive, you know, you’ve almost missed pre-appetizer cocktails. Please hang your coats in the closet and be quick about it.”

He slips back inside gracefully. Newt has to nudge the end of Hermann’s cane with his shoe—his dress shoe, still stiff and shiny—five times before Hermann notices. “Pre-appetizer cocktails,” he hisses.

“Bugger,” Hermann says.

Newt hangs Hermann’s parka in the spacious, color-coded closet for him while Hermann frets over his blazer in the entrance hall. It’s probably one of the nicest apartments Newt’s ever been inside of, and certainly nicer than the PPDC-issued Shatterdome digs he's gotten used to; truthfully, it’s more like a penthouse than anything else, nestled away only one floor from the top. All very minimalist chic. Impersonal, really. Spotless hardwood floors, spotless slate-grey walls, liberal use of (to borrow a word from late-night HGTV marathons in grad school) _open-concept_ floor plans. Newt’s not surprised when they round the corner and find that the entire right side of the sitting room is nothing but a wall of windows with a truthfully gorgeous view of the city. Dietrich’s heating bill must be astronomical. Newt suddenly feels very shabby in his little corduroy sports coat.

Seated across matching, expensive leather furniture are the Gottliebs and their various dates. Dietrich takes a spot on a loveseat next to a man with the generic good looks of a movie star—striking eyes, a chiseled jaw, and long blonde hair—and, for a moment, Newt wonders if he might not be. There’s Karla—her curly hair cropped to her shoulders, thick Coke-bottle glasses perched on the end of her nose—muttering something under her breath to someone with a head of close-cropped dark hair and a turtleneck whom Newt takes to be her psychologist partner Jonas. That must make Bastien—the only unaccounted for Gottlieb sibling, and the guy Newt _absolutely_ has to talk to tonight—the bearded guy sitting stiffly in an armchair, nursing a martini. At the sound of Hermann’s cane echoing against the hardwood, they all swivel in Newt and Hermann’s direction.

“Hermann and Dr. Newton Geiszler,” Dietrich announces, the perfect picture of boredom. He lifts his own martini from a glass coffee table.

No one looks very happy to see them. Newt might even go as far as to say they look _actively annoyed_ to see them.

“How can they hate me _already_?” Newt hisses in Hermann’s ear, and Hermann shakes his head.

“No, Newton, it’s _me_ ,” he whispers back. “They hate _me_. Good evening,” he says, in a normal tone. “You all look…well.”

“Hi,” Newt says. He waves. “What’s up?” Next to him, Hermann inhales sharply. Misstep? The thought sends Newt’s heart racing, and—instead of quitting while he’s ahead—he presses on anxiously. “I’m Hermann’s—uh, partner, I guess? Research partner I mean. Though, I guess we’re kinda dating, too, haha.” Hermann’s cane raps hard against his ankle, but Newt keeps talking for some reason. Nerves. “Hermann doesn’t really want to put a label on it yet, he's funny about those sorts of things. We worked together during the war? And, um, we’re kinda living together now. Couple's housing at the 'dome. You can—you can just call me Newt. I don’t really like being called _doctor_.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. “You’re the biologist,” Karla says, not a question.

“Guilty as charged,” Newt says, and forces a laugh even as he cringes.

This time, Hermann groans. “I think you ought to fix us drinks, Newton,” he says through gritted teeth. “Right now. Really. I’m sure Dietrich wouldn’t mind.”

Dietrich arches an eyebrow. “Does Dr. Geiszler know how to make a proper cocktail?” he says.

“Sure do,” Newt says. “I’ll, uh, I’ll get right on that.”

He hurries to a small glass minibar pressed against one of the tall windows. He’s never even _seen_ booze this expensive in person before, and his hand shakes the whole time he fixes two simple gin and tonics, out of fear of knocking over one of the many bottles of vodka or cognac. Behind him, Hermann attempts to salvage the conversation. “Newton and I shared a laboratory for many years,” he says. “He was—er, is—a brilliant kaiju scientist. We’ve collaborated on several papers—though I'm sure you know that already.”

Newt trips back over with the gin and tonics. Hermann’s hand is trembling when he takes his, and he smiles awkwardly. “Thank you very much, Newton.”

“I suppose you haven’t very much to _do_ with yourself these days, then, Dr. Geiszler,” Dietrich says. “Considering that there is a rather distinct lack of kaiju. You and my brother must be enjoying your, ah, _vacation_.”

“You’d be surprised!” Newt says. “Uh. I mean, obviously there’s no more—no more kaiju, but the coasts are a _wreck_ , right, so many ecosystems destroyed from kaiju blue poisoning, a million endangered species, and I didn’t _only_ study kaiju, you know, I can help with the rehabilitation, all that shit—and of course there’s still _so much_ about the kaiju we don’t know! As long as we’ve got kaiju bodies, I can still learn more, and—what I’m saying is,” he takes a too-big sip of his drink, and spills a little down his corduroy blazer, “that there’s still plenty to do!”

“Newton has six PhDs,” Hermann supplies, helpfully.

The blonde sitting with Dietrich lets out a small laugh. “ _Six_?”

Hermann swells visibly with pride, and Newt feels himself swell, too, though with gratitude and affection. He loves when Hermann brags about him—just knowing he’s _worthwhile_ enough to be bragged about, and especially to Hermann, is the best thing in the world. “Yes,” Hermann says. “Six. He’s a _very_ gifted man.”

“Bryce has seven,” Dietrich says.

Newt’s happy little bubble bursts. “S—seven?” Newt says.

The blonde—Bryce, Newt assumes—bows his head in mock-bashfulness. “Oh, _Dietrich_ , you know I hate when you bring that up. But yes—seven. It’s important for one’s education to be well-rounded, don’t you think?” He smiles at Newt. “Couldn’t quite make it to that last one, huh, Dr. Geiszler?”

Newt never felt any particular way about his PhDs before—he got them because he _likes learning_ , you know, not because he wanted bragging rights, and also maybe because he had some severe undiagnosed ADHD in his twenties and it was near impossible to pick just one field of study—but he suddenly finds himself wanting nothing more than to go back and beg MIT for funding not just for one more, but _two_ , for the sole purpose of rubbing them in _Bryce’s_ face. “I,” he says. “Uh. Well. I guess I _considered_ doing more, but after the first kaiju attack—I got distracted by other things?”

“Funny,” Bryce says, airily, “I didn’t have that problem.”

As Newt blushes, Dietrich clears his throat. “I suggest we all reconvene in the dining room for appetizers,” he says. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

There are seven chairs for each of them set around the dining table, and each is marked with a tidy little notecard to indicate whose seat is which. _Geiszler_ is misspelled on Newt's. Newt finds himself nestled between Hermann and Bastien, the latter of whom actually smiles politely (if not a little tersely) at Newt when they sit down. For some bizarre reason. “You used to send Hermann so many letters when he was young,” Bastien says, dragging a bowl of flatbread crackers over to himself. “I remember—every week, at least one through the mailslot. Newton Geiszler, Massachusetts, USA. You always added too many stamps.”

“Oh, haha,” Newt says. International mail was a bit of a mystery to him then. “Uh, yep—that would’ve been me.”

“ _You’re_ Hermann’s penpal?” Karla interjects. Her eyebrows leap up her forehead. She has dark circles under her eyes, Newt notices now, like she hasn’t slept in a while. Or at least not well. Chairing departments in med school must be tough work. To Jonas, she says “Hermann would receive these terribly thick envelopes from America _constantly_ , and would never let any of us see what they said—it was all very secretive. Of course, _I’d_ moved out into a place of my own by then, but…”

“Father required my assistance with the jaeger program,” Hermann says, stiffly. “It was—er—the _logical conclusion_ to live under the same roof.”

“You wrote each other letters?” Jonas says. They fold their arms skeptically. “Did you not have email?”

“Letters seemed more,” Newt says, “uh, I don’t know. Appropriate? It’s not like I actually expected Hermann to write me back. Besides, I didn’t have his email.”

“Seems like a waste of paper,” Jonas mutters to Karla, and she nods.

“Father was very unimpressed by the whole thing, I recall,” Bastien says. “He thought it was too much of a distraction from your work.” He waves a cracker at Newt. “You were the subject of _many_ rows in this house, Dr. Geiszler.”

“When has Father ever been impressed by anything?” Hermann grumbles, breaking one of his own most important rules— _don’t insult my dad in front of my siblings_ —in the process, though if any of them hear, they pretend they don’t.

“As if that would’ve stopped Hermann,” Karla snorts. “You remember the sorts of boys he would bring home in secondary school. Leather jackets—shaved heads—tattoos—and all those times Hermann would stay out past curfew and come home _reeking_ of cigarette smoke…”

“Or with a piercing,” Bastien says, sounding delighted. “Remember that? On only one earlobe, the most ridiculous little skull of all time. His boyfriend did it with a _pin_ after school one day.” He tugs at his own earlobe to make the point. Newt immediately turns to Hermann to search for proof himself, wondering how he could’ve _possibly_ missed that in their previous, uh, intimate couplings, but falters in the face of Hermann’s scowl. He’ll just wait until Hermann’s asleep tonight to investigate. But a _skull_? “What was his name again?” Bastien continues, with feigned confusion. “Karl?”

“No, it wasn’t Karl,” Karla says. “That was just what we all called him because he used to carry that bloody copy of Marx everywhere.”

“Only I’m sure he introduced himself to me as Karl when Hermann brought him to Mother and Father’s anniversary dinner,” Bastien says. “Though, perhaps you're right—”

“That _dinner_ ,” Karla says.

She and Bastien exchange a dark look.

“Dinner?” Newt says. “What happened?”

Hermann clears his throat. “Er. Perhaps we ought to—”

“Father sent Hermann away to that posh boarding school in England not a month later,” Karla says. “During dessert, Hermann—”

“Wine?” Dietrich says, reappearing at the head of the table.

“Oh!” Newt suddenly remembers what else he’d put in the hall closet with Hermann’s parka—a nice bottle of red, picked up at a liquor store by the hotel before he and Hermann hailed their cab. He jumps to his feet, sending his namecard fluttering to the floor. “Give me one second!”

Dietrich scrutinizes the label with a frown when Newt presents the wine bottle proudly, though Newt has a hard time believing he’ll find anything wrong with it. It was one of the fanciest bottles in the store, and the cashier personally suggested it to Newt when Newt asked for recommendations on how to impress your boyfriend’s snooty family. Personal experience, apparently. “It looked good,” Newt says. “Hermann said you all prefer red wine.”

“ _Ordinarily_ that is true,” Dietrich says, “but unfortunately, we’ll be having _fish_ tonight, which requires the lighter touch of white wine. Ah—yes, thank you, Bryce.” His blonde boyfriend appears at his elbow, holding a bottle of white wine. Dietrich takes it with a terse smile. “Besides—I’m afraid the bottle Bryce has brought is simply of a higher caliber than yours, Dr. Geiszler, and we’d be having his either way.”

“Oh,” Newt says. “Cool.”

He sits back down in his chair, picking at the label of his pricey wine. Hermann rubs a soothing hand over his knee. “Don’t fret,” he murmurs to Newt. “We’ll have it in the hotel room later tonight—goodness knows we’ll be wanting _something_ when we finish with all this.”

_This cost as much my monthly cell phone bill_ , Newt wants to say, and to remind Hermann that they would’ve _easily_ made do with boxed wine if that’s all they were gonna use it for, but he shuts his mouth and pats Hermann’s hand right back. The bottle of wine, he tucks out of sight. He doesn't particularly want to look at it right now. “I wouldn’t touch the fish, if I were you,” Bastien mutters to Newt. “Dietrich’s a rubbish cook. He gave us all food poisoning at Grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party with some spoiled salmon—I haven’t touched a piece since.”

“Ha, really?” Newt says, never having considered the fact that Hermann _also_ has things like grandparents. He watches Dietrich pour three perfectly even glasses of wine. Bastien nods furiously as he takes one.

“You ought to just stick with the potatoes,” he says. “Even Dietrich can’t mess those up too badly.”

“Guess it runs in the family,” Newt says. “Uh, no offense. What I mean is Hermann’s not exactly a chef either. One time—” He lowers his voice. No use hurting Hermann’s feelings over anything. “One time he was trying to make me a birthday cake—"

“What are you two _whispering_ about?” Hermann says.

“Your incompetence,” Bastien says. He sips from his glass of wine, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “Something or other about a birthday cake. Newton was _just_ telling me.”

Newt blushes in mortification; he hadn’t told Hermann there was anything wrong with the cake at the time, just shut his mouth and choked it down, but forgetting to add sugar _was_ sort of a big deal. Hermann blinks at him, something like hurt behind his eyes. Newt had told him it was the best cake ever. “No, not a birthday cake,” Newt says quickly. “You must’ve misheard me—”

“So, Dr. Geiszler,” Bryce interrupts. He’s helping Dietrich distribute the rest of the newly-filled wine glasses, and not quite smiling at Newt. Newt can’t help but notice that the two glasses passed to him and Hermann have about a centimeter less wine than everyone else’s, while the glasses in front of Dietrich and Bryce have about a centimeter _more_. “You’ve probably heard about Dietrich’s space probe by now.”

Next to Newt, Hermann groans and sinks lower into his seat. “Uh, yeah,” Newt says. “Hermann told me about it.” 7 PhDs, he remembers. The guy’s probably fishing for the chance to talk about all the cool engineering work he did alongside Dietrich. Newt will give it to him this time, in the interest of playing nice. “Did you help work on it too?”

This gets several laughs. “No?” Newt says.

“Bryce is taking a short break from the sciences at the moment,” Dietrich says, “to focus on his music career. He plays several marvelously, but none so much as the cello.”

“My newest album is coming out—oh, in a month or so,” Bryce says. “It’s a series of low-fidelity arrangements of _Bach_.” He pronounces Bach exactly the way Newt expected him to. “Bastien is producing it—actually, that’s how Dietrich and I met.”

They don’t look at each other when Dietrich places a hesitant hand at Bryce’s back. Newt feels a sudden surge of pettiness, and, unable to help himself, blurts out “It’s kinda funny how you sunk all that money into some lame probe for five years instead of doing something useful with it.”

“Newton,” Hermann says, warningly.

“Like, I don’t know,” Newt says, louder. “Sending literally any of that over to the jaeger program your brother was working in to _help_ _save the world_.” He viscously slices a piece of Brie cheese on the charcuterie board laid out in the center of the table. “I’m just saying. It’s not like we don’t already know there’s life out there. What was a space probe gonna tell you that couldn't wait another few years?”

The resulting silence is thick enough to cut through like a second piece of Brie. Newt shoves three crackers in his mouth and raises an eyebrow at Dietrich. Dietrich works his jaw in a very Hermann way. “As Hermann has no doubt explained to you,” he says, “the jaeger program is a bit of—ah—a touchy subject in our family, and I don’t particularly care for the opinion of a _biologist_ on it. Perhaps we should talk of something else.”

“Sure thing,” Newt says. “Hey, you know I had a band too? Oh, we were great. The Black Velvet Rabbits.” He nods at Bastien. “You know my bassist, actually, dude—”

“Black Velvet Rabbits?” Karla says. “That’s—an interesting name.”

“It makes you sound like one of those playb—” Jonas says.

“We were great,” Newt repeats. Better than any Bach BS. “Punk scene, you know. Look, I bet I could pull up some old videos. I’m sure they’re on youtube or something. Gimme one second—” He pulls open his phone’s web browser and types into the Google image search bar furiously, not even waiting for anything to fully load before flashing the screen to the rest of the Gottliebs. Man, that was the best time of his life—barring the part where interdimensional aliens started ravaging the Earth and everything. He had an awesome band, an awesome research gig, an awesome penpal…

“Oh, my,” Karla says. Bastien chokes on his modest helping of spinach-artichoke dip.

Newt glances down at the screen. Huh, okay—he definitely could’ve thought a little harder about whether or not this was a good idea. He forgot about how, um, _deliberately raunchy_ he would dress up for most of the BVR shows. Plenty of fishnets under leather jackets, mostly, and some garter belts. And sometimes just fishnets and garter belts. One of the top image results for his band is Newt dressed in the latter and doing some very creative, and obvious, miming with his microphone on his knees by his bassist. He snatches his phone away. “No wonder you wrote him so many love letters, Hermann,” Bastien snorts. Newt’s blush returns with a vengeance.

“6 PhDs, huh?” Karla says.

“Oh,” Newt says. “Uh. Yeah?”

Bryce mutters something under his breath to Dietrich, and Newt hears just enough to catch the gist of it—he’s suggesting exactly how Newt might’ve earned those PhDs, and it definitely wasn't through merit. Hermann hears it, too, and no amount of frantically tugging on the edge of his blazer stops him from doing what he does next: he slams his cane down against the floor, his hand down to the tabletop, and rises to his feet. “That’s _enough_ ,” he snaps.

“Dude,” Newt says. He tugs Hermann's blazer again. “Look, it’s fine, I don't mind. I was totally kinda slutty back then, and I kinda deserve it, I was being—”

“I _love_ Newton, whether you approve of it or not,” Hermann continues, “and I would appreciate it if you would at least _pretend_ to treat him with respect.”

He sits back down, scowling. Newt tries not to gape at him, but it’s kind of hard; Hermann’s never said he loves him before. Also, it was kind of hot seeing Hermann yell at a bunch of people on his behalf, especially after Newt kinda brought it on himself. “You’re always so _dramatic_ , Hermann,” Dietrich says, and sighs. “I’ll fetch the fish. It should be finished—no, Bryce, _please_ , I can do it alone.”

Beneath the table, Newt takes Hermann’s hand.

* * *

Newt pops the cork on the untouched red wine with his teeth the moment they step through their hotel room door. “What an absolutely _hellish_ night,” Hermann moans, dropping to the bed. “I thought it’d never end.”

After Hermann’s awkward little display of emotion, Dietrich had brought out the main course—some fancy smoked fish Newt forgot the name of already, on account of having stringently followed Bastien’s suggestion to avoid it, and a few side dishes—and what proceeded was the strangest back-and-forth competitive one-upping Newt has ever been witness to, something which he can only assume has been at play since the Gottliebs’ childhood. Dietrich talked about his space probe again, deliberately avoiding meeting Newt’s eyes the whole time; Karla took the opportunity to jump in and talk about the new wing her medical school was adding, and how she was overseeing the staffing; then Bastien talked at length about all the talented new artists he’d signed that month alone, which caused Dietrich to jump back in and talk about Bryce’s highly-anticipated new album and his upcoming performance with some famous orchestra, and Karla to mention the massive research grant Jonas had just received for their newest case study, when finally Hermann—visibly cracking, after being so quiet for almost twenty minutes—casually referenced his and Newt’s drift with a kaiju brain. (“I daresay our help was _invaluable_ in closing the Breach for good,” Hermann had said smugly. “Why, I doubt we’d even be sitting here right now, talking about all of our _wonderful_ accomplishments, if it wasn’t for Newton and me.”) That shut everyone up.

“I’m pretty sure you let loose some _heavy_ government secrets tonight, dude,” Newt says. “We weren’t even allowed to write reports about our drift.” If the UN comes knocking at Newt’s door, _he’s_ not gonna be taking the fall for that, thank you very much.

“Oh, bugger that,” Hermann says. “It was worth it to see their faces.”

Yeah, it kind of was. Dietrich and Karla had both gone a little green. Newt sits down next to Hermann and nudges his thigh with the wine bottle. He wants nothing more than to get out of his dumb corduroy coat and bowtie, but priorities, man. “Y’want any?”

“Mm, where did you find cups?”

If Newt squints, he thinks he might be able to see a small puncture in Hermann’s left earlobe, nearly healed over after some twenty-odd years. He wonders if he could talk Hermann into wearing something in it again, if not just in private for him. Maybe another little skull. “I didn’t,” he says.

Hermann sits up and accepts a sip right from the bottle. Newt waits for him to swallow before he leans in and steals a long, thorough kiss. His lips are tingling when he pulls away, from both the alcohol and the general pleasant effect kissing Hermann usually has on him. Hermann looks a little stunned. “By Jove, Newton,” he says. “What—?”

“Just thinking about how glad I am I got the best one of the bunch,” Newt says. The corners of Hermann's eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Now let’s order room service or something, I’m starving.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I hope you enjoyed, and feel free to drop a comment if you did!!! find me on tumblr at hermannthumb (where I often take ficlet requests) and twitter at hermanngaylieb!


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